


Agreeable

by rathernotmyname



Series: Childhood Friends AU [1]
Category: Papillon (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Canonical Child Abuse, Fictober! Day 12, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Louis Dega Needs a Hug, Louis' parents... not so much, Multi, Papi's parents are awesome, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Somewhat, yeah... I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28051470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathernotmyname/pseuds/rathernotmyname
Summary: When a nine-year-old Henri Charrière meets a eight-year-old Louis Dega, a friendship is built while their shared fate remains unknown.Or:Papi and Louis meet as children AU.
Relationships: Henri “Papillon” Charriere & Louis Dega
Series: Childhood Friends AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2054784
Kudos: 3





	Agreeable

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note:  
> I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORK BEING HOSTED OR REPOSTED ON ANY UNOFFICIAL APPS OR WEBSITES OTHER THAN ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN WITHOUT MY APPROVAL, PARTICULARLY APPS WITH AD REVENUE AND SUBSCRIPTION SERVICES.

Henri had had what he called a “most agreeable afternoon”.

“Agreeable” was his newest favourite word, thus, he made sure to use it in every other sentence. His Papa had thought his growing vocabulary to be very agreeable, as had his Maman.

Maman had tried to teach him a little bit of English, but he didn’t like it very much outside of the game called ‘patty-cake’. He had to admit that she was a good teacher, though, patient with Henri’s easily bored 9-year-old mind and funny in the way she thought of grimaces so he could pronounce the weird, mumbly words. 

“Eh-loh,” Henri practised in front of the bathroom mirror, then shook his head and tried again. “Hhhheh-loh.” Much better. 

It kind of sounded as if he had burned his tongue and tried to cool it, but Maman said it was supposed to sound like that.

“My name ihs… my name issss…”

His practice was distracted when Maman called his name. He thundered down the stairs eagerly. 

“Henri, please get a few glasses,” Maman said, taking plates out of the cupboard and putting them on the table while Papa laboured over the pots and pans in the kitchen. 

“Yes,” Henri answered in English, little chest swelling with pride at both of his parents’ delighted faces and calls of praise. 

He still grinned when he carried three glasses to the table with the utmost care. Maman took the glasses from him and pulled out a chair for him, but instead of sitting Henri walked by her and pulled the two other chairs out for his parents to sit on.

“Thank you, poussin,” said Maman and brushed a gentle hand over feathery blond hair. 

“You’re welcome, Madame,” Henri said politely. ‘Manners’ was certainly not his favourite subject in school, but all grown-ups approved when he behaved… well, agreeable.

While eating, Papa queried Henri’s English. He pointed at various items at the table, listened carefully to Henri pronouncing the foreign words with a mouthful of bread. Henri was frustrated that he couldn’t name most of them, but he knew “nose” and “ear”, and that was very impressive, his Papa said. 

As dinner came to close and Maman lightened a few candles, Papa told them about a rich business man from Marseilles that would come visit to help out with financial issues at Papa’s school. 

“He didn’t come voluntarily, I have to admit, the headmaster had to bribe him with a few, erm, benefits.”

Maman sighed and frowned. Henri frowned, too. That business man didn’t sound very nice.

“Well, in any case, I thought about offering him and his family to stay with us until their departure. We still have our little attic apartment. The water still runs up there, doesn’t it?” he asked and pointed upwards with his index finger. 

At Henri’s attentive look, he pretended to point in the wrong direction and almost shoved his finger up his nose. Henri burst into shrieking laughter.

“Do you think they won’t be insulted with the state of the apartment?” Maman fretted, lightening a few more candles. “If he is rich, he’s certainly used to more luxurious accommodations.”

Papa stood up, patted Henri’s head and wrapped Maman up in his arms, kissing her. Henri made a disgusted sound and hid his face in his hands.

“If there’s anything rich men hate, it is to spend money if they can avoid it. They could eat with us and we could wash their clothes. I don’t think they would be insulted. It’s not like they will stay with us forever.”

Maman sighed again, but she didn’t frown anymore. They kissed again. Henri pretended to gag.

“Alright,” she said.

Papa half-turned to Henri, while still holding Maman. 

“He has two sons, a little younger than you, as I’ve heard. You could play together, what do you think?”

Henri thought that to be most agreeable. He had always wanted little siblings.

It was raining cats and dogs when the Degas arrived, driven in a black taxi that looked horribly expensive. Henri’s face was pressed to the window pane as his parents left the house, carrying one umbrella in each hand, which were passed to their guests. Then they returned to the house, now carrying only one umbrella and a suitcase. 

Maman entered the house first, a petite, dark-skinned woman with elegantly coiffed hair entered next. Henri left his place at the window to take the umbrella from her and asking her about her journey, following every step of politeness he had learned at school. 

Madame Dega seemed to be surprised at his manners, as if Henri’s lanky build, outgrown trousers and happy, chubby-cheeked and grubby face spelled misbehaviour. Henri decided that he didn’t like her, even when she praised Maman for having raised such a nice boy.

“My God, if only my boys were as well-behaved as he was,” she lamented while Maman helped her get out of her uncomfortable looking coat. “They wouldn’t think to call me ‘Madame’ if the world was ending.”

Henri frowned. The two sons sounded horribly spoiled. He also thought about pointing out that he didn’t call his Maman ‘Madame’ either, but he held back because that probably wasn’t considered ‘well-behaved’. 

Papa came through the door and gave his umbrella to Henri, who dutifully carried it to the ornate umbrella holder. Maman had joked once that this umbrella holder was the most expensive thing they owned, and Papa had replied that the most expensive thing in the house was Henri. Maman had laughed so much that she snorted. Then Papa had lifted Henri on his shoulders and ran around on the courtyard with him. 

The man that entered behind Papa didn’t look like he carried his sons on his shoulders. 

He was tall, looked even sterner than the nun who taught mathematics at school, and was all in all very intimidating. Henri’s first instinct was to hide as soon as Monsieur Dega’s pale eyes found his. 

He didn’t want to take Monsieur Dega’s umbrella. Papa took it instead, but he didn’t seem to be angry at Henri for not being polite. Maybe he was scared of Monsieur Dega, too.

The door closed behind Monsieur Dega, even though nobody had pulled it shut. 

“Take off your shoes,” Madame Dega said in a harsh tone, face completely empty of the polite smile she had given Maman. “You’re going to get the floor wet. Now come here and intruduce yourself.”

Henri heard the small sound of a pair of shoes hitting the door mat, and he re-emerged from where he’d partly hidden behind the doorway to the kitchen. 

A boy shuffled into his line of sight, face unreadable and eyes hidden behind an enormously thick pair of round glasses. 

Henri smiled at him. The didn’t smile back, only fidgeting with his glasses, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Perhaps he was shy.

Trying to impress him, Henri said: “Hhe-loh.” 

“Excuse me?” the boy asked in French. His voice was small and unsure. It fit him, Henri thought.

An angry huff from behind the boy interrupted Henri’s explanation of the English language.

“Didn’t your hear your mother? Introduce yourself,” Monsieur Dega spat and shoved his sons shoulder so hard that he almost fell over. 

The boy stammered his name and a few greeting phrases, but Henri didn’t hear him, too shocked at what he had just witnessed. 

Papa never shoved him. He only patted his head or maybe pinched his cheek, but he was never mean to him or Maman. 

Maybe the boy had made a fuss when they were driving, and had been scolded for it. Maybe Monsieur Dega hadn’t meant to shove him so hard. That must be it.

Henri still thought that he should apologize, but maybe his sons were so spoiled that they needed their parents to set boundaries. That’s what the sisters always said to Papa when Henri brawled with the other boys, he had to set some boundaries. Instead, Papa had taught Henri how to box.

“Where’s your other son?” Papa asked when they had gathered around the living room table, the kitchen being too small for so many people. “Forgive me, was I misinformed?”

“No, you were not,” Monsieur Dega replied leisurely. 

Henri felt a little safer now that he sat on Papa’s lap.

“Joseph refused to get into the taxi. We discussed with him for three hours, and then decided it was the best for all of our nerves to leave him at home with the nanny we hired.”

Henri couldn’t fathom how the Degas could just leave one of their children behind. Weren’t they worried? The short breath that Papa let out told him that he thought similarly.

“Well, if he’s in good hands…”

“That he is.”

Maman returned from the kitchen, a tray with coffee and little biscuits that Henri had helped bake in her arms. 

“So tell me, is the weather in Marseilles as dreadful as it is here?” she asked while passing out cups, spoons and saucers.

“Ah, it’s the seaside, what would one expect,” Madame Dega began, and Henri tuned out, bored, but too scared of Monsieur Dega to ask his son to com play with him in his room. Maybe he had been sent into time-out and wasn’t allowed to play. He watched him, but the boy didn’t look up once, still shivering in his rain-wet clothes, dark hair plastered to his skull. Henri realized that he hadn’t been given an umbrella.

The mood in the following week was subdued, as the rain wouldn’t let up and they quickly ran out of conversation topics, since Monsieur Dega hadn’t been able to visit Papa’s school yet. 

So far, Henri had gathered that the Degas lived in a big, beautiful manor with a big garden. The two sons went to a catholic school. Henri shuddered at the thought of being taught exclusively by stern nuns. How horrible. 

He also learned that for all his air of a good-mannered lord, Monsieur Dega was very disrespectful.

He called Papa “Charrière” instead of “Monsieur Charrière” or even Papa’s first name, and Papa, a little fed up with that, had taken to call him “Dega”, which had made Monsieur Dega visibly angry the first time he did it, but didn’t argue with every other time after that. 

Henri, who still didn’t know the name of Monsieur Dega’s son and was too afraid to ask at this point, started to call the boy “Dega” as well, simply out of convenience. 

Dega called him nothing at all. He didn’t speak much, anyway. He only said “Good morning” or “Good night” and murmured his prayer before dinner, but he didn’t want to learn patty-cake and didn’t seem to be interested in Henri’s toys. 

Henri was frustrated. Obviously Dega thought Henri wasn’t good enough to befriend. Very well. Then they would have to be enemies.

He cornered Dega at noon on the courtyard, where he had sat on the stairs reading a book, and tried to start a fight with him.

“Hey,” he said, doing his best to sound aloof. 

Dega looked up from his book, frowned, adjusted his glasses and resumed reading. 

“Hey,” Henri repeated, now a little peeved.

“What do you want?”

“I want to know what’s that wool you have on your head.”

Dega reached for where his neatly combed hair had poofed up from humidity. He tried to press the tight curls down, to no avail.

“It looks stupid,” Henri egged him on, but still trying to not be too mean, in case Dega decided to snitch. He was too scared of Monsieur Dega for that. 

“Well, you will have to get used to it. After all, you are surrounded by ugliness every day, you must have gotten used to it by now. Especially when you look into the mirror.”

For a moment, Henri was too surprised at the unusual amount of words that had come out of Dega’s mouth, and he was a little impressed at how much his words stung.

Shortly after, his mind drowned in white-hot fury.

“Say that again!” he screamed, hands balled into tiny fists. 

Dega looked up from his book and met his eyes directly, a challenge gleaming in them behind the thick lenses of his glasses. 

“I said, you are surrounded-”

Henri threw himself at Dega, getting hit by his book in the process, and they landed in the mud, scrabbling and rolling around. 

Henri knew how to use his fists, Dega obviously did not. He floundered like a fish in a net, trying to scratch and bite and pull Henri’s hair. He succeeded briefly with the latter, making Henri emit a pained howl. 

Neither of them heard the thunderous steps coming down the flight of stairs to the courtyard. Just as Henri thought about honourably standing down and declaring a tie, they were ripped apart by a pair of arms each, and set on the ground at a distance.

Papa looked disappointed, and Henri immediately felt regret for starting a fight with their guest. He hung his head as Papa shook his head and sighed. He patted Henri’s head and subtly searched him for serious injuries, and when he found none, he told him that he would get grounded until further notice. 

Monsieur Dega looked livid.

On the other side of the courtyard, he shouted at his son, face flushed an ugly, blotchy red colour, voice so loud that Henri’s ears hurt from where he was standing a few metres away. In fact, Monsieur Dega’s voice was so full of fury that Henri could barely understand what he was saying. He recognized a few words like ‘disgrace’ and ‘humiliation’ and others that Henri was sure he didn’t even want to know. 

Dega’s pale eyes stared up at his father, scrawny body shaking with tension and eyebrows almost meeting in the middle with how hard he frowned. 

“I didn’t start it!” he shrieked with his pathetic, high-pitched little voice.

Monsieur Dega started to puff with sheer anger.

And then he lifted his arm.

His hand collided with his son’s cheek so forcefully that the crack it produced sounded like someone had fired a gun next to Henri’s ear. 

Dega’s little head whipped to the side with the force of the slap, whole body turning with him and sending him back into the mud. 

“That should teach you,” Monsieur Dega told him, his voice deceptively calm again. 

Henri could hardly hear him over the sound of his own racing heart. Papa had unconsciously wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him tighter to his side, as if to protect him. 

Henri found that arrangement to be most agreeable. He had never been more scared of a person than of this horrible, horrible man.

Monsieur Dega turned away from his son, who was sitting on the ground, quietly crying, and moved back to the porch. 

“Can’t teach them to behave without punishment,” he told Papa as he passed them, almost nonchalantly as if nothing worth of note had happened. 

Papa didn’t say anything. He and Henri both suddenly came to the conclusion that they couldn’t blame Joseph for wanting to be as far away from his father as possible.

Papa sent Henri inside to help his mother with the laundry and went to care for Dega, who was still sobbing in the dirt, glasses askew and cheek fire-red, streaked with tears. 

Henri and Dega didn’t fight anymore in the rest of the time the Degas spent with them. Dega agreed to play patty-cake with Henri and showed him how to draw giraffes and kittens. 

Dega was great at drawing. He said that he wanted to become an artist when he was grown up. 

Henri said that he wanted to become rich so he could live in a manor with his parents like Dega.

Dega just smiled sadly and didn’t speak anymore for the rest of the day. 

In the night before his family’s departure, Dega came into Henri’s room, hesitatingly knocking at his bed frame and only climbing up to him when Henri had assured him four times that he hadn’t woken him. Which was a lie, but it was obviously important. 

“I don’t want to go back home,” Dega admitted quietly, snuggled into Henri’s comforter, squinting into the darkness. His glasses rested on Henri’s dresser.

“I like it here. It’s more… lively. Our house always feels so empty.”

Henri turned his head to look at him, imagining the red handprint on Dega’s cheek that had been there just a week before, clear as day. 

“I can only imagine,” he answered quietly, feeling horribly sorry for his new friend. 

There was no Papa in Marseilles to comfort him when his own father shoved him to the ground. 

“But you still have your brother, you can teach him patty-cake. And how to say ‘nose’ in English.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Dega yawned. Henri copied him, and buried himself deeper in his blankets.

As he was on the cusp of sleep, he heard Dega whisper: “I would rather us to be adopted by your parents.”

(After that night, it would take more than 20 years until he saw Dega again, pointed out by a fellow inmate named Julot. If it had been under any other circumstances, their reunion would have been most agreeable.)

**Author's Note:**

> This was hard to write, ngl. This is the first part of three: they meet as children. Fictober Day 13 and 14 are the sequels! Enjoy!  
> Thank you for reading! ♥


End file.
